Bygone Berkshire

And men fell out they knew not why:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a colonelling.
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west tide:
On either side he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
For his religion it was fit
To match his learning and his wit.
'Twas Presbyterian true blue,
For he was of the stubborn crew
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun:
And prove their doctrine or the dox
By apostolic blows and knocks.
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite.
Quarrel with mince-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend plum-porridge.
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose."

On Sir Arthur's refusal to surrender, the town was at once assailed, the Royalist out-posts at Caversham being easily driven in, the bridge broken down, and batteries planted there commanding the town. This was April 15th. The Earl of Essex had at this time some 16,000 foot, and 300 horse, a force which in the course of a week was nearly doubled. His headquarters were at Southcote, leaving Colonel Skippon in charge of the siege works in the meadows at the N.W. of the town, on the old Battel Abbey estate, where was most of the fighting; whilst Lord Gray of Warwick sat down before the town, on the S.E. parts, with 7,000 horse and foot. Codrington tells us the Earl held a council of war, at which it was debated whether to storm or not. The cavalry were for attempting it, the infantry against, and this latter opinion prevailed, the garrison being supposed to be stronger than it really was. We read in the "Perfect Diurnal" of February 10th, "They are 4,000 strong in the town; some works are cast up as high as the houses; they have made use of all the clothier's wool in the town, and made wool-packs thereof." "There is nothing like leather," as is well known; but it may be doubted whether bales of cloth are benefited by a week's cannonading. No wonder the cloth-trade languished after that involuntary employment of the stock-in-trade.

And now we will come to dates, making use of our two friends' diaries. It is a pity we have not also a Royalist record to check them by. But first we will take a look at the army investing. They are most of them young troops, and with officers at present unversed in siege operations: but some have already fought at Edgehill, notably the Saye and Sele "Blue Coats;" Colonel Nathanael and Colonel John Fiennes commanding them, would both be there, and perhaps his lordship. Hampden's "Green Coats" would also add to the variety, with the London train bands "Red Coats;" this red was a colour that Cromwell afterwards adopted for the whole of the British army, and which, it need hardly be remarked, is now "the thin red line which never wavers," and which more than once has confronted both cavalry and artillery successfully.

April 17th. Writes Sir Samuel: – "Our lines got within musket shot of the town."

April 18th. – "The enemy appeared on Cawsham hills under General Ruven, went to Sonning, and put down (up?) the river in boats 600 musketeers, with several waggon loads of ammunition; which we could not hinder because we had broken down Cawsham bridge."

This was very cleverly managed, as the town had at first only twenty barrels of gunpowder altogether. Now their artillery would be well supplied; and the barges ran up by the Kennet in perfect safety into the very heart of the town. Immediately after this a battery was planted on the Thames bank by Essex, that effectually 'shut the door' north of the Kennet; but, by this time, 'the horse was stolen,' or, at least, the powder safe housed! On this day a cannon burst, killing four men and wounding half-a-dozen more of the besiegers; but what was much more serious for the King's party on this day, the Governor got a hurt that at once totally incapacitated him, and a mere seniority officer, a Col. Richard Fielding, took the command.

On the 19th there was a brisk sally, but repulses of the garrison. "On that night His Excellency advanced his batteries and placed his ordinance within less than pistol shot of Harrison's Fort." Stout old Skippon is here: and is in deadly earnest, like Cromwell, however unwilling Essex and Manchester may be to go to extremities.

April 20th. Says our Chronicler: – "Lord Gray pushes closer up."

April 21st is an eventful day. "Battered the town," says the diary, "got up within pistol shot of one of their choicest bulwarks in a place called the Gallows Field." On this day it is that St. Giles steeple comes to grief; now we will copy Codrington. "They planted ordinance on a steeple, but our cannons were levelled against it with such dexterity, that both cannoniers and cannon were soon buried under the ruins."

April 22nd. – "Flower, sent by the King to say he was coming to raise the siege, swam in with despatches, but is caught going back, and so the plan frustrated." Essex reversed his batteries, and so was ready to give the approaching Royalists a hot reception.

April 23rd. – An unlucky spy is seized, who had volunteered the perilous work of blowing up the siege ammunition train; he is hung in sight of the rampart, which is retaliated on the next day.

April 24th. – "A sudden sally; they got into our trenches, and killed four men; but were driven back with loss of twelve, but we could not get out the bodies of our men. Lord Gray got within pistol shot of Harrison's Barn."

This seems to have frightened Col. Fielding, who evidently was not the stuff that heroes are made of.

Hark! Hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along the charging lines:
For Love!' 'For the Cause!' 'For the Church!' 'For the Law!'
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

25th April, 9 a.m. – The town hung out a white flag, and sent "a drum to beat a parley, which His Excellency gave way to." If Fielding had but held out another day, and had co-operated with the King's forces, the town might have been relieved, and Essex driven away; for a few hours after, Charles makes a determined attack in force upon Caversham Bridge, which is only repulsed after heavy fighting, and through Essex being able to give his undivided attention. "The fight began," says Codrington, "about Cawsham Bridge, and on both sides great valour and resolution was expressed. After less than half-an-hour's fight, the enemy began to give ground, leaving about 300 arms, and many of their men behind them; their Horse also, which came down the hill to assist the Fort, were gallantly repulsed; about a hundred were slain upon the spot, among whom Sergt. Major Smith, in whose pocket was found good store of gold."

This settled the matter. Charles retired unmolested to Caversham House, where Fielding was allowed to go to him on April 26th. He obtained leave to surrender, the picked troops of the garrison being urgently required for service elsewhere. This permission, of course, did not clear Fielding, who was tried afterwards by court martial and sentenced to be beheaded, but the King did not allow the sentence to be carried out.

April 27th. – The surrender takes place. "He was pardoned," says Clarendon, "without much grace; his regiment was given to another, and he resolved as a volunteer; in this capacity he fought desperately through the war when danger was most rife, but in vain. So difficult a thing it is to play an after game of reputation in that nice and jealous profession of arms." "As they march out at Friar's Corner," says Sir Samuel, "at the same place when, as is recorded further, the soldiers plundered the houses of four Grand Malignants who had given information to the Governor of such persons as were inclined to the cause of the Parliament, and had therefore paid a double tax to the weekly contribution." This, perhaps, was as little as could be expected from a victorious cause; and Sir Samuel again concludes all very characteristically and satisfactorily too, as regards the God-fearing soldiers of the Commonwealth.

April 30th, "being the Sunday, was spent in preaching and hearing God's word, the churches being extraordinarily filled, and soldiers and all men carrying themselves very civilly all the day long."

Sickness appears to have broken out amongst Essex's young soldiers encamped on the marshy meadows on the N.W. of the town, which may have had something to do with the easy terms granted. The Mercurius Aulicus, the Court Journal, has a story that "a soldier said that Essex caused five great pits to be dug at a distance from his camp, into which he cast the slain to conceal their number." The Earl stayed here until July, and ordered a heavy contribution for the pay of the soldiers. The Corporation, however, waited upon him to represent "they had been so impoverished by the late siege, and the exactions of His Majesty, as to be utterly unable to raise any more money amongst them." And this excuse seems to have been graciously accepted. Charles' "little finger," in money matters, was of necessity "thicker than the Parliament's loins," and this lead considerably to the declining of his cause. When the tide of war turned a couple of years after, he appeared again here, and stayed at Coley; but we do not hear then of any more forced benevolences; indeed he conferred a real benefit, by having the fortification "slighted," which no doubt the burgesses received with extreme satisfaction. So the siege ended. Sieges in those days were trying to reputations. Colonel N. Fiennes, at Bristol, and then Prince Rupert at the same place, whether justly or not, were heavily censured for surrendering, and both of them came very near to sharing the fate of Fielding. That old lamentation was speedily verified; but with this we have happily no further connection.

"Lament! Lament!
And let thy tears run down,
To see the rent
Between the robe and crown!
War, like a serpent, has its head got in,
And will not cease so soon as 't did begin."

Reading Abbey

It is hardly necessary to state that in rather early days, when the Thames flowed into the Rhine and Great Britain was a part of a greater continent, there was no Reading Abbey. Neither was there sometime after, when the city was a swamp between the Thames and the Kennet, and some few huts clustered round the Roman station Ad Pontes, where the legions crossed from Londinium on their way to the rich and important town of Calleva. We may possibly date our abbey's beginning from the third or fourth century. It may have been a chapel of ease to that interesting little church lately uncovered, and alas! covered up again, at Silchester. At any rate we are on firm ground when, towards the end of the tenth century, we locate a nunnery here, founded by Queen Elfreda, who at last began to repent of her various crimes. She had, perhaps, some excuse for arranging with the King to get rid of her first husband, who had deceived his royal master, lead astray by her fatal beauty. Thus she attained the throne to which she had no doubt been destined; but it was going too far to retain it by the murder of the son of her predecessor, Queen Ethelfleda; which is one of the horrid memories that clings round Corfe Castle. And now we leap to the beginning of the twelfth century and get on still firmer ground, when Henry I., at the height of his power, and also beginning to feel a little compunction, resolved to make reparations by founding what should be an abbey of world-wide magnificence.

He certainly succeeded. I mean with his abbey, though I am not prepared to go as far as do the chroniclers of his predecessor: —

"King Ethelbert lies here,
Closed in this polyander.
For building churches straight he goes
To heaven without meander."

Henry I. never did things by halves, and they could build in those days. His architect had carte blanche, and with wonderful speed there arose that glorious fabric whose ruins we weep over, and use for our flower shows. The abbey covered some thirty acres. It was surrounded with a wall, vast and strong, except where guarded by the Kennet, and four huge embattled gateways opened out to the four quarters. Almost all its stones are now gone. "It pitieth," or it ought to pity the by-passers to see some in the wall of that house in Hosier Street, some very few on the site, and oh, 18th century! many cartloads vandalised into a bridge on the road to Henley, near where the Druid's temple of despoiled Jersey adds another sorrow to the scenery. But at its dedication in 1164, in Henry II.'s time, the abbey and the abbey church must indeed have been magnificent. The latter was a cruciform building 420 x 92 feet in dimensions, without an aisle, covering the vast space between the Forbury and the gaol. Its extent is well shown, by the notices the Corporation has lately put up under the skilled guidance of those two chiefest of experts, the Secretary and Treasurer of the Berkshire Archæological Society. After the dedication ceremony, the King, and his still friendly Beckett, would doubtless adjourn to the magnificent Consistory, the great Hall, one of the largest and finest in England, destined to see so many Parliaments, and other national assemblings.

The inner gateway still remains, restored, perhaps, almost too modernly; close inspection will, however, show the old gate hinges and portcullis way; closer investigation still may even discover the dog badge of the last abbot, and a dolphin with the red rose of Lancaster on its tail, probably also belonging to the same period. Here the humble burgesses used to bow themselves before the Lord Abbot, and listen whilst he was pleased to indicate which of them might fulfil the then limited office of mayor. In front of this, as some say, the last abbot and his two accomplice monks died the awfully cruel traitor's death, having been convicted of sending supplies to the northern rebels in their so-called Pilgrimage of Grace. It has much pleasanter modern memories, being lent by the good town to the Berkshire Archæological Society, and being the scene in its fine old chamber of many interesting archæological gatherings. But I have strayed a long way from 1164. The second Henry's reign was no doubt its golden period; more memories cluster about the abbey in the twelfth century than at any other time. Here, the year before, in 1163, had occurred "the Fight on the Island," when, much to Henry's regret, de Bohun fell beneath the spear of de Montford.

"His fame, as blighted in the field,
He strove to clear by spear and shield;
To clear his fame in vain he strove,
For wondrous are His ways above.
How could the guiltless champion quail,
Or how the great ordeal fail!"

"The knights met on horseback," says Norroy Seagur, "clad in armour, (on the island just below Caversham Bridge; a street running down to it has lately been called De Montford Street), Montford attacked with such resolution as to hurl Henry of Essex out of the saddle, when being stunned and faint from loss of blood, he was taken up apparently dead." King Henry handed him over to the monks of Reading Abbey, under whose care he recovered, and at once joined the fraternity. Some years after, and following on that bad Beckett business, Henry was here again, for here, in 1185, came Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, and the Master of the Temple with him, appealing for a crusade to all Christian Kings, and especially to King Henry, who, it was considered, especially needed that moral white-washing. What a sight for the abbey! They brought with them the Standard of the Kingdom of the Holy Land, the Keys of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and of the Tower of David. The King reverently received them all, but handed them back to the Patriarch until he could consult with his barons. Henry was too old to go, but numbers of the young nobility took the cross, and carried it in the van against the Infidel; and not least fiery Prince Richard, the king of all knight errants. He went off immediately on coming to the throne, and performed exploits which far exceed those imagined by Ariosto. Unfortunately he needed money, and had to carry off the golden cover his father gave for the chief abbey relic, the hand of St. James; but that doubtless would soon be replaced by the offerings of the home-staying faithful.

Also in this reign, and at its close, were several royal funerals. Henry I. of course had himself buried here, as it was said in a silver coffin, which caused some very ruthless explorations at the time of the Suppression. A stone coffin found here recently had a very distinguished origin suggested for it by a high local authority. In 1154, Prince William, eldest son of Henry II., was buried here near his grandfather. Also here was buried King Henry II.'s second wife, Adeliza; and thereby hangs a very complicated and curious tale.

In 1810 some workmen digging in the abbey precincts "found a box which contained a perfectly formed fleshy hand (writes Mrs. Climenson, in her almost universal 'History of Shiplake,') holding a slender rod surmounted by a crucifix." This, she says, is now in Mr. Scott Murray's Roman Catholic Chapel at Danesfield, and is considered to be the hand of St. James the Less, which was brought from Germany by the Empress Maud, and given by her to her father, who gave it to the Abbey. "It is in perfect preservation, a plump and well-shaped hand, small, and with taper fingers, and almond-shaped nails, so small it might well be a woman's." And it probably is, and the hand of Queen Adeliza. One almost regrets it was not left in its hoped-for last resting-place. There is something gruesome in such remains, especially, perhaps, in heaped-up skulls in museums. Those lines of a modern poet on such a sight are pathetic.

"Did she live centuries, or ages back?
What colour were those eyes when bright and waking?